H for Horatio
by mellow all through
Summary: The journey to Babel is coming to an end, but the troubles continue. Someone is plotting a mischief, friends look down on friends, lovers throw each others' feelings around, and gratitude is an alien concept. At some point, McCoy realizes he doesn't belong to this twisted, anecdotal world anymore. Spock/McCoy - a relationship in crisis.
1. Chapter 1

**I wrote this after I learned McCoy's middle name was Horatio. Or rather, when I realized it wasn't only about "Hamlet". There are, in fact, three Horatii, all of which fit neatly to McCoy's personality, so I based the story on those.**

 **The text has some references, which are quite explicit. I will leave them for you to locate, but here's the hint: look for a Shakespearian faithful friend, an ancient hero, and a philosopher. I do not own the Horatii, or the two Shakespeare lines and а TOS script line I used.**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

"Shut up!"

Spock arched his brow and obeyed, more surprised than intimidated by the command. Doctor McCoy turned sharply to the other biobed.

"Shh! Shhhh!"

Jim was just opening his mouth to say something, but the doctor looked like he meant business, so he changed his mind. McCoy turned his gaze furiously from one to the other until they were both sufficiently quiet. He then seemed to relax and let a smile lighten up his face.

"Well, what do you know? I finally got the last word."

With this, he left the ward and retired to his cabinet to do the reports. He sat down, a stylus in his hand, and listened. He could vaguely hear their muffled voices from behind the wall. They chatted for a while, and then Jim and Amanda laughed, sounding relieved. The two Vulcans remained solemn, their voices a deep leveled rumble, but he could feel the air was getting jovial in there. They all seemed to think it was some kind of a joke, McCoy thought, switching on his padd. Oh, well. They could giggle all they wanted, they could all laugh their butts off, he wouldn't care, as long as they stayed put and took their pills. Otherwise he just might have to glue them to their biobeds.

He was about to begin his work when the doors to the sickbay slid open. He raised his head and watched a group of Tellarites enter. They were desolate and lost without the late ambassador Gav, but rampant all the same. Raucously, they explained they'd come to inquire after the Captain's health. McCoy shook his head.

"Some other time, gentlemen. He's only just stopped hoppin'."

The delegates tried to insist, but he was firm, and they left indignant. Their roars still ringing in his ears, McCoy went back to the report and tried to focus. He inserted the stardate and began scrolling through the templates when he was interrupted again. Two Ithenites bustled in, like little gold-skinned Oompa-Loompas, looking important under their fez hats. They, too, asked about the Captain and the Vulcans. The doctor had to show them to the exit, quite literally this time, with the delegates trying to sneak under his arms now and again.

He closed the doors behind them, but the moment he turned away, another bunch of visitors was in and at him. And then another one came. And then two more. The doctor kept fighting them off for quite a while, going over and over again how the Captain wasn't seeing anyone, and never quite getting down to his work. He was beginning to regret you couldn't have padlocks on automated doors.

When it became quiet, he took a deep breath and paced about his cabinet for some time. Good thing they were going on a shore leave after the Enterprise was docked to Babel's repairs hull. The ship was a bolt bucket after the Orions' attack, and the whole delegates thing was one massive disaster, and the crew was freaking out and frazzled. His own nerves were screaming for either a couple of days' sleep or a gallon of coffee.

He took the stylus and went on filling the tables. The smart notetaker extension was automatically turning his atrocious little handwriting into block letters. He was already halfway through when the doors hissed open again, and four Andorians went in. Dressed in their national chain-mail outfits, blue faces radiating pomposity, and with ambassador Shras at the lead. These four didn't even look in McCoy's direction. They just started making their way past him into the ward, as if he didn't exist.

The doctor felt his jaw drop. He gaped at them for a full second, taken aback by such audacity. He then rose to his feet and stood them in the way, arms crossed.

"It's next door," he said grumpily.

Ambassador Shras blinked at him.

"What is?"

"Whatever you're looking for," McCoy said, "Give my patients a break, willya?"

This seemed to cut the delegates' grandeur down to size. Shras hesitated, and then beamed a gracious smile. His gums were dark blue.

"Why, doctor, after Captain Kirk so masterfully maneuvered us out of death's grip, won't you give us a chance to thank our hero?"

"He's wounded and needs rest," McCoy said, trying not to stare the alien in the mouth, "Season your admiration with some common sense, ambassador. Just for a change, y'know."

The Andorian's smile became a couple of molars narrower. His associates didn't seem to like that, either. They started talking all at once and gesticulating wildly, clearly not taking no for an answer. This was getting weird, McCoy thought, backing off in case one of them caught him on the nose accidentally. And loud, too.

"Bones! Who are you fighting this time?"

Shras called out through the door, and Jim called back, cheerfully. Oh, great. McCoy entered the ward and pressed the lock button quickly before the Andorians could slip in. When he saw Jim was already sitting up, he almost growled. Glue wouldn't be much use here, he thought. Perhaps, a good old nine-inch nail?

"Jim, I – "

"I know, Bones, you're a doctor, not a gatekeeper," Jim said. He then cocked his eyes in Sarek's direction and went on in whisper, "But it's political, you see? We still have them under our responsibility, and we've got to keep them happy until we've reached Babel. Could you please put up just a little longer?"

McCoy glanced at Sarek, whose face was perfectly blank, as if he didn't hear every word. The doctor knew he had to comply. Now that the Andorians heard Jim was awake, he had to let them in. Otherwise they might think the Vulcans were cooking up a mischief with the Captain involved. This would lead to another scene of bigotry, which couldn't be allowed, not on the ship. Scenes had to wait until the conference, where the delegates could tear at each other's throats as much as they liked.

He shrugged and opened the ward, and even forced a smile as the Andorians entered. Back at his desk, he pressed the stylus so hard against the padd the sensor screen went rainbows. The voices behind the wall grew louder, and there were some more bursts of laughter on the humans' and the Andorians' part. He then overheard some apologetic notes to Shras' voice, a dignified calmness to Sarek's, and it was all peaceful, just as Jim hoped.

He could understand that. And he had to admit Jim was right. And still, somehow it was always doctor McCoy that had to comply with what the others wanted.

Rank had nothing to do with it. He would never question Jim's authority as a superior. It was the categorical "Bones-I-need-you-here" imperative that troubled him, because it gave their friendship a touch of one-sidedness. It was McCoy that had to babysit Jim wherever he went. And be the shoulder to cry on after Jim was left heartbroken – which seemed to happen on a weekly basis. And – which was probably the most annoying – put up with his prescriptions and advice being happily ignored. Oh, Jim did value him just like anyone on this ship, maybe more. But, it seemed, only as something that added value to his own self.

The doctor went to the food replicator and made some coffee. When he turned, he almost bumped into the Andorians, who were setting off to leave. Skipping nonchalantly after them, with a boyish smile on his face, was Jim.

"Just where do you think you're – "

Jim went big-eyed and mouthed the word "political" at him.

"Jim, your wound – "

"Oh, that scratch. Don't let this bother you," the Captain waved him off, "We're arriving at Babel in a half-hour or so. I'll be waiting for you at the transporter."

McCoy just stood there, tongue-tied. Shras glanced at him and flashed another smile, but with his lips only. His eyes were humorless.

"If I were as lucky to have such a faithful friend as you are, Captain, I would wear him in my heart's core," he cocked his head to the side, studying the doctor as if putting his face to memory, "Doctor Bones, is it?"

"My records have another name in 'em," McCoy snapped, "And so does the plaque on that door. Just in case your grace ever feels like reading anything but your own credentials."

Jim goggled at him again and raised a finger to his lips. In the chilly silence that followed, McCoy held the Andorian's spiteful gaze. With grim satisfaction, he saw Shras quail and be the first to look aside.

"I shall look forward to seeing you at the conference, doctor," he said through his teeth, "What would you vote, by the way, if you had the chance?"

"Doctor McCoy is neutral," Jim cut in hastily, "We all are."

"Yes, I can see that," Shras said.

They strolled past him. McCoy heard the Captain assure the ambassador that they'd be transported from the repairs hull to the surface safe and well. He'd take this under his personal supervision. There was nothing to worry about, he repeated, and the two looked the best of friends as they were leaving.

That's the whole point, McCoy thought. Typical.

He glared at the closed doors, resisting the urge to smash the coffee cup against them. Surely, the antennae-headed wankers didn't need to worry about anything. What they needed was a good kick in the pants for messing with his patients, but the trouble was, he wasn't the one to decide. Jim was, and he was making way too much fuss about the whole thing, to his opinion. And that was another problem: no one asked McCoy's opinion. No one cared about McCoy having a ton of paperwork piling up, or a life of his own, for that matter. He had to be at the transporter because Jim told him to, the very Jim that went around nearly impaled, not giving a damn about the doctor's orders, leaving Spock and his parents on McCoy's hands –

The thought slid like an ice cube down his spine. He shivered cold and stared at the wall separating him from the ward, wide-eyed. He was alone with Spock and his parents.

McCoy tiptoed to his desk, slid behind it, and put the paper cup down, noiselessly. He clasped the tabletop with both hands, straining his hearing, trying to distinguish which one was talking and catch every intonation once he couldn't make out the words. It was downright eavesdropping, he knew, and did it deliberately. This time, he had a very good reason, because clearly, they were talking about him and Spock.

Spock was – well, Spock was a different story.


	2. Chapter 2

At some point in the past, doctor McCoy realized his feelings for Spock were something deeper than friendship. And he knew he was ruined. The feeling was so powerful it overflowed, like a tidal wave. It flooded his lungs to collapse, numbed his whole body, pulled him all the way down its dark, dreadful depth. It was dreadful and dark, because he saw no way Spock could reciprocate. It was ridiculous: Spock and him? An officer and an officer? A Vulcan and a human? A man and a man? There was no way out, and McCoy felt he was drowning. He went through every stage of mental conflict: he hated himself, denied the feeling, bargained – and then depression came, and it squeezed the last breath of oxygen out of his lungs. On one night, he mixed up just about every kind of alcohol he could get hold of, hoping half-heartedly that it would keep him afloat.

It did not. The poisoning nearly took his life. And it was all for nothing, because the feeling was stronger than the near-deadly concentration of ethanol in his bloodstream. McCoy understood it the second he woke up at the sickbay and saw Spock bending over him, looking concerned. It turned out, the Vulcan had found him in his quarters, out cold and white in the face, and carried him to the sickbay. He then spent about a half of his recreation time watching the medics detoxicate McCoy and waiting for him to come round. The first thing Spock asked was "why would you ever do that?". The doctor looked into those deep dark brown eyes, and couldn't bear it any longer.

He told him everything. It was stupid, laughable, Spock would never accept it – after all, love probably was the most illogical emotion there was. McCoy knew that much, but he was just so goddamn tired of hurting alone. So he stammered and spat his pain out, furiously, ashamedly, and then a long silence followed.

Spock considered. And said the doctor's insecurity was quite groundless. There was a universal factor that could logically justify any emotional engagement: mutual beneficence. As long as a relationship was non-destructive and beneficial for both, it was viable, Spock said. Rank, status, race, age, and biological sex were merely variables.

He went on to say that he didn't think their relationship was altogether improbable. He'd even calculated the odds for it, but McCoy didn't care about the odds. He just gave the Vulcan a long look, and then kissed him, softly, on the mouth.

The doctor could guess he didn't look or smell his best after the night of liquor binge. He wondered if that was the reason Spock was so stiff when their lips first touched. But the stiffness was there long after the sickness was gone. It all happened about two months ago, and they never went further than chaste kissing since then. McCoy realized it was never gonna be easy with Spock – he was a Vulcan, after all – so he didn't press. He could be patient when he wanted to. He cherished every time Spock touched his hand or hugged him reluctantly, because these moments were so few. Somehow it was mostly McCoy who made the contact.

He also had a pretty clear idea how unreliable he looked after he'd gone on the drink spree. This, too, could be the reason for Spock to keep his distance, the doctor had thought. Spock wouldn't understand the depths that he'd drowned in. From the Vulcan's point of view, he was someone emotionally unstable enough to intoxicate himself when he could have simply come up and discuss it. He would, perhaps, be ashamed of him, McCoy had reasoned, and would never take him seriously. To his utter astonishment, Spock did. So seriously, in fact, that he was planning to let his parents know, which meant he wanted to make it official at some point later.

The Vulcan told him they just had to wait for an appropriate moment to initiate the discussion. But then Sarek and Amanda were at the Enterprise, on their journey to the conference, and the moment never came. In fact, Spock seemed to drift further away into the distance, purging the pathetically little warmth that he had ever shown. McCoy knew he had issues with his father and wanted to ease the tension somehow, but kept failing no matter how hard he tried. He wanted to learn that goddamn Vulcan salute, and couldn't. He just barely made friends with Amanda – a splendid woman – and she even seemed to enjoy his company, but the 'teddy bear' thing was a pretty awkward moment. And he was only trying to make conversation.

Then there was the murder, the attack, the operation – the one where he transfused a half-human's blood into a purebred Vulcan, with the ship shaking and coming undone all around. But that was just another casual miracle of doctor McCoy's. Injecting Spock with a potentially deadly solution wasn't. No one had the slightest idea what he felt, hypospraying his lover and realizing that it might kill him, for all he knew. Spock alone could reassure him, but didn't. It was McCoy's duty, he said, which automatically excluded all things personal. The doctor had to clench his teeth and comply. Again.

And now it was all over. They were approaching Babel, and the father and son had come to terms, and everyone was safe. Finally, the moment was right. McCoy looked at his hands grasping the tabletop, somewhat shakily. He'd thought he's gotten past the age when you worry yourself stupid before meeting your loved one's family. But there he was, a ball of nerves, apprehensive to the point of involuntary wheezing. What would they say? Would they even consider it a possibility? Their only son – and him?

He was older. He was a human. And in spite of the mutual beneficence factor, he was a man. He couldn't imagine how Spock's parents would react to that one. Vulcans were generally heteronormative, and just who knew, maybe the intelligent, graceful Amanda would turn out to be a staunch traditionalist.

The doctor listened so hard his head was starting to ache. And he almost fell off his chair when he heard Spock calling out to him.

Well, this was it. McCoy ran a hand over his hair, straightened out his uniform tunic, and went inside, his heart pounding. He searched Amanda's and Sarek's faces trying to figure out what to expect. Upon his entrance, the woman smiled. The Vulcan remained expressionless, but in a good way. Oh, maybe it wasn't so bad after all. Maybe Spock would even mellow down a little, now that he had his parents' support. The doctor's heart sang at the thought, and he approached their biobeds.

"Judging by what I have learned of you," Sarek said, his accent a soft roll, "You are not the person to treat a thoroughly-planned process lightly. Is it correct?"

McCoy straightened up. There was no second answer to that question.

"I assure you, ambassador, I have given it quite a thought. My intentions are serious."

"Indeed," Sarek arched his brow a little, "Aren't the stakeholders supposed to have some knowledge of your intentions?"

There. In your face, Mr. Waiting-until-the-time-was-right. In his emotionless way, Sarek was clearly pissed they didn't tell him earlier. The doctor could relate to that, in a way.

"Of course they are. Only, we haven't had much time to discuss it, have we," he smiled, "I don't think I should have raised the subject while operating on you."

"Such a conversation would be quite premature," Sarek nodded, "But now that our condition has sufficiently improved… Could you, perhaps, let us know when you intend to discharge us?"

McCoy stared at him, and then stared some more.

"Umm," he said at last.

"Oh, we do realize discharge is a lengthy process," Amanda said with a warm smile, "And we appreciate how seriously you go about it. But Sarek has an introductory meeting to prepare for, and Spock has the docking procedure to oversee – "

"And you are obviously quite stressed with the surgery and other issues," Spock cut in, "Evidently, you would benefit us all by not detaining us here any further. Since we are indeed quite well by now."

McCoy turned his gaze from one to another. He had to replay their words in his head a couple of times before the meaning got through. They were simply asking him to let them go. Spock's parents still didn't know about their relationship because he never told them.

He looked at Spock and just couldn't get it. The setting was nice, the atmosphere jolly. Sarek was undistempered as ever, and Amanda was just about the only one to openly express her gratitude for McCoy's effort, which would probably score him some extra points. What was it that troubled Spock? Was it the Vulcan's way of saying he'd changed his mind?

The doctor's nerves unwound like a spring and hit him where he was the weakest. His most unsettling suspicions just got confirmed: Spock doubted. He was having second thoughts over someone as bitter as McCoy. Choking with hurt, fists clenched, he stepped towards Spock's biobed. He felt betrayed. Twice, because the computer-headed bastard had the nerve to poke at his professional judgment again. And he clung to that last condescending remark of Spock's to take his anger out.

"So, turns out I'm detaining you, huh? Well, ya, whatever, you can leave any time you feel well enough to. It's not like I'm an authority here, right?" McCoy said, glaring at him, "Because when everyone's a goddamn Prince of Denmark, my role is pretty obvious."

Spock blinked. The outburst was unexpected and not quite rational. But the doctor wasn't finished.

"Tell you what. You can go and die of a vasovagal syncope, or atelestasis, or blow your brains out if you like. I won't interfere, and you know why? 'Cause I'm sick of you sitting around teaching me how to do my blasted job, you pointed-eared scumbag!"

The Vulcans' faces went stone-hard, and Amanda let out a gasp. McCoy realized it has all gone terribly wrong, and he would probably regret what he just said. Insulting both the son and the father in one go wasn't the best way to get your lover's parents to like you. Not that he cared much, at this moment. Turning sharply on his heel, he stormed out, left an audio-note for Christine to discharge the two, and vacated the sickbay. The report was left uncompleted.


	3. Chapter 3

No, seriously, McCoy thought. 23rd century, and we're still ears-deep in postmodern.

We have crossed the final frontier. We are roaming through space, searching for new existences, cutting unthinkable distances down to an arm's reach. There are infinite alien worlds all around us, buzzing with crowds of strange people and their bizarre ways. There are millions of things to do, and stories to hear, and experiences to learn from. But at some point, as the universe oscillates around us in all its endless glory, we realize that nothing can really strike us as new. Nothing gets us by surprise any longer, wherever we go, whatever we see. Because the moment we look at it, we begin remembering where we've seen it before.

It's the state of a perpetual deja-vu we live in. The story unwinds around us, as if it has already happened before and will probably happen again. And we have no choice but to follow the storyline where no one is supposed to act out of character.

What's my place in all this, I wonder, McCoy thought as he followed Jim into the conference chamber. I'm beginning to feel like I'm a fictional character myself.

The Enterprise had been docked, and the repairs were already in full course. The delegations and the crew were beamed safely down to the planetoid's surface and checked into several hotels at the capital's center. The city was pathetically small, just like everything else on Babel, and it was packed full of visitors from all over the system and beyond, who'd come to learn the conference outcomes first-hand. It was understandable – after all, history was being created right before their eyes – but the air was barely breathable, and the arrival of almost 500 people didn't make it any less crowded. Some of the Enterprise's crew went to explore the capital or rented private vessels and set off to the neighboring cities for rest. But most of them stayed, including Jim, of course.

And naturally, Jim had to be in the center of the action. He'd solicited VIP invites for three, he's been to the kick-off and the banquet, where he shone charming smiles at everyone. And he just had to drag Spock and McCoy along wherever he went. As if it never occurred to him that they might have their own plans for the shore leave.

And now the three of them were at the Council, taking their seats in the conference chamber and waiting for the introductory meeting to start. The chamber resembled an amphitheater, with the first rows reserved for the delegates, and the guests seated further and higher up. Jim sat next to Amanda, and the two were chatting amiably. McCoy and Spock took neighboring places, but it was as good as nothing.

The doctor cast a sidelong look at the Vulcan, who was staring straight ahead. This sharp face could be a blank slate to anyone, but not to him. In his unreadable way, Spock was clearly mad at him for what he'd said back at the sickbay. McCoy almost scoffed aloud. He wasn't the one to start it, but the attitude was Spock's to show off. Typical. And that goddamn conference, too. If they'd ever gotten a moment to themselves, maybe they'd have it all clear by now. Maybe they'd even reconcile.

He crossed his arms and sank into the chair, watching grimly as the Coridan chancellor entered the arena, mounted the stand and got the meeting started. Several representatives took turns, making their point either for or against Coridan's admission to the Federation. Some talked about the short-term gains and long-term pains the admission would bring the system, or raged how the Coridans cared about nothing but political influence, or spat acid at how the planet was going to run out of dilithium in less than a year. Others assured that shared ownership and legal trade would bring everyone a lot of benefit, and went on about the priceless knowledge and best practices, and that a union was just one of those obviously good ideas, wasn't it?

When Sarek raised a hand, it became much quieter in the chamber. The Vulcan stood up and walked towards the arena's center, all eyes transfixed on him. He spoke about the safety the underprotected Coridan race was entitled to, once admitted. The Federation was an entity of utmost power, and it would secure Coridan's people and resources from any threats. Including those that came from within, Sarek added calmly.

This caused an uproar. Several delegates sprang up to the arena and attacked Sarek at the top of their lungs. McCoy slapped his knee and gaped at the Vulcan in sheer admiration. Phlegmatically, almost leisurely, he just lashed out at those who'd stuffed their pockets full of illegally mined dilithium. The doctor watched Sarek stand up to the others' wrath, and thought he got it why Amanda had married him at all. The man was unbreakable.

The Vulcan's speech triggered such a turbulence that the chancellor called for a recess. During the break, the three of them joined Amanda and went to congratulate Sarek. Jim looked as if he was going to slap the Vulcan on the back but changed his mind at the last moment. Sarek met the appraisals with his usual quiet dignity.

"I have never doubted your integrity, ambassador," Jim said after everyone said their congrats, "But something is telling me you've just made some mortal enemies with your truth."

"Open rivalry is better than questionable goodwill," the Vulcan replied, "It is less time-consuming."

He didn't look at McCoy, but the doctor could just feel it was about him. He almost shrank, mortified. He'd never meant to insult Sarek, let alone in racial terms, when he called Spock names back then. Infuriated, he'd just forgotten that there were, in fact, _two_ pointed-eared scumbags in the room. And now he just wished he'd bitten his tongue off because now he had one more offended Vulcan to handle.

Jim's communicator tweeted, interrupting them.

"Kirk here."

"Lt. Uhura here, sir. We are receiving the Andorian Imperial Guard on visual. Sir, they are demanding some explanations about the death of one of their men."

Jim frowned.

"I thought Shras has told them what Thelev was up to."

"So did we. And that's another problem, sir. They say they've lost the signal from ambassador Shras some time ago. And we cannot locate his party, either. Have you seen them at the conference?"

McCoy looked around. He remembered Shras speak at the beginning, with that blue-gummed grin of his, talking much but never really saying anything. Then he'd spot the ambassador's antennae sticking out from the crowd now and again... And then he was too entranced with Sarek's speech to tell if he was still there in its course. The five of them swiveled their heads about the chamber, but there were no Andorians to be seen.

"Looks like they've left at some point," Jim said slowly, "Tell the Guardians we'll organize a search party. Although now that we're at Babel, it's the Council's responsibility, not ours."

There was some shuffling audible through the speaker.

"Scott here, Captain. Ye'd better come up here, sir, and try to put some reason in 'em. They're ravin' mad how everything is gettin' falsified, and how it must be the Vulcans plottin' to kick them oot of the vote."

Spock and Sarek arched their brows in unison. Jim exchanged glances with them and seemed to realize it was becoming too political for him to tackle on his own. The relations between Vulcans and Andorians had been strained as they were. And now, whatever Shras was up to, they couldn't allow the shaky peacefulness to come undone before their eyes.

"Four to beam up in five minutes. Kirk out."


	4. Chapter 4

Up at the Enterprise, they headed for the bridge along the corridors that seemed disturbingly empty without the crew fussing to and fro. Scotty said they were the only ones left up here apart from the technicians and some redshirt guards. And the blue Imperial mugshots on the viewscreen, obviously. The Engineer was no racist, McCoy knew, but he was just as tired from this hellish journey as everyone, and the Andorian thing was obviously tearing up the last scraps of patience that he had.

The two mugshots on the screen were indeed quite blue. But there was something about their appearance that struck the doctor as odd, and he wasn't the only one. Jim, and Uhura, and Scotty, all squinted at the screen like they saw something was wrong but weren't sure what exactly. The Vulcans remained serene, but the doctor had learned to read them well enough to see they suspected something fishy as well.

"So, Captain," one of the Guardians said, somewhat stiffly.

Jim straightened up and stepped forward.

"We are currently trying to reach your representative, who is unresponsive. I don't understand his motives just yet, but I assure you that no harm was done to him or his colleagues while he was under my protection."

"No harm, you say," the other Guardian cut in, robotically, "This doesn't quite agree with the fact that one of our men was killed."

Great. Now they were talking murder. And they were almost motionless while they spoke, their eyes and mouths just about the only indicators that they were, in fact, alive. Strange, McCoy thought, and creepy, too.

"You have been misinformed, Guardian," Jim said, approaching the viewscreen, "Thelev served under you, but he wasn't your man, or even an Andorian. He was an Orion spy on a suicide mission."

The picture on the screen blinked and went static. Uhura pressed some buttons and then some more, but nothing happened. The Guardians' faces kept hovering for a while, like a post-mortem group photo, staring at them dead-eyed. And then the blue color of their complexion gradually faded into bottle-green.

What they thought was a channel disturbance turned out to be a holographic field – and now they switched it off to reveal their actual selves. Which weren't even remotely Andorian, either.

"Our point exactly," one of the Orions said.

At this moment, the doors to the bridge slid open, and ambassador Shras went in. His three associates followed in trail, drawing their phasers as they did. The three humans gasped and jerked forward, but were under the gun before they knew it.

"Oh, goddammit," McCoy whispered as one of the nozzles pointed at his head.

Shras looked amused, as if he only just noticed the doctor. He greeted him with a little bow, his eyes full of cold mockery.

"I have followed your advice and studied the records, doctor, – and my, what a splendid piece of fable! Horatius at the bridge! The noble Roman fighting an army at the river Tiber, alone and bare-handed. And which one of these," he waved his phaser in the Vulcans' direction, "Would be your Hephaestus?"

"Your knowledge of Earth mythology is remarkable," Jim said, gritting his teeth, "But what in the name of – "

Shras hissed at him, and Jim went quiet. One of the viewscreened Orions cleared her throat.

"You are now the property of the Orion Syndicate," she chided in her real non-computerized voice, "We may not always show it, but we value our employees, and there will be some reckoning. Turn in your weapons and follow these gentlemen."

No one made a move. Perhaps, the sheer shock of the treason numbed their bodies still. Shras cast a look around and stopped at Sarek, who was standing between Spock and Uhura at their work panels. He was the only one unarmed. The Andorian aimed his phaser between the Vulcan's eyes.

"Time is a finite resource. And so is my patience."

Spock froze, eyeing the distance between Shras' gun nozzle and his father's head. The distance was unsettlingly short. He dropped his weapon and sent it sliding across the deck in the Andorian's direction. The others did the same. Keeping Sarek at phaserpoint, Shras snapped his fingers, and his men went to pick up the weapons.

Reluctantly, one of the delegates approached Jim and bent over. The moment his hand touched the phaser, Jim rushed forward and grabbed him by the head. He whammed his knee against the alien's face and knocked some of his teeth in, with an audible crack. But before he had a chance to get hold of his phaser, Shras swung his arm sharply and shot.

"Jim!"

McCoy sprang forward and caught the Captain in his fall. He lowered him carefully on the deck, motionless, and drew a handheld scanner from the medkit on his side. Jim was alive and breathing faintly. He was only stunned, which wasn't that dangerous, but still weakened after the wound. He probably wouldn't come round before the Andorians took them to wherever the Orions ordered. Which meant he might just as well not come round at all.

Shras looked at McCoy, contemplating if he should shoot him, too, but concluded that the doctor was harmless. He then surveyed his fallen comrade, who clutched his jaw, whining and spattering blue blood all over himself. The ambassador shoved him to his feet.

"You decrepit slug. Let that be a lesson to you. And to all of you," he said, setting his phaser on kill, "Unless you want to turn into a bag of ocampa fries at your next poorly-calculated move. Get them, gentlemen."

It was a nice try of Jim's but it all happened too fast for the captives to react. Two of the Andorians approached Spock and Scotty and were twisting their arms behind their backs, while Shras and the toothless one kept their guns on Sarek and the rest. The Vulcan watched his son being dragged away from him, somewhat passively, and then glanced upwards at the contented Orions.

"Sending your employees to death is a somewhat peculiar way to demonstrate your care," he said pensively.

"All the Orions care about is the dilithium, and you know it," Spock said, struggling against his captor, "To go on mining and smuggling, it is only logical that they remove you as the main proponent of Coridan's admission."

"Unquestionably. But I had surmised the Orions' untrustworthiness was common knowledge," Sarek said, turning to Shras, "Which is why I fail to see the logic in your collaboration with the pirates, ambassador. Is their bribery worth your good name as a Federation member?"

McCoy saw Shras' antennae swell angrily with blood. He'd heard of a similar reaction in some dinosaur species: they'd pump blood into their spinal ridge to appear more dangerous when fighting for territories. But he would never expect a humanoid to show something as atavistic as this.

"Motives of violence are something we've discussed with your son," Shras hissed at Sarek, "Nothing has changed since then. Passion and gain still have no logic in them – and neither does the sheer thrill of revenge for your people's disgrace. Remember the 2150s, Vulcan."

So, this was it, McCoy realized. It was all because of a private civil war that broke out on Coridan back in the 2150s and quickly turned into an interplanetary conflict, because Andorians and Vulcans patronized opposing sides. The fighting stopped more than a century ago, but the frictions were never quite resolved. It was still nagging where the races had picked at each other's pride – which was why it took so little to buy Shras. He'd sooner pay the Orions out of his pocket than miss such an opportunity.

The injured Andorian grabbed McCoy by the shoulders and tore him away from Jim. The doctor resisted, but the alien was stronger.

"I've heard revenge was best when served cold," McCoy panted, trying to wriggle out of the alien's grip, "Only, it's probably gone stale and stinkin' after no one's touched it for a whole century."

"We shall discuss this later, o valorous Latin," Shras said, "The dungeons of Orion will provide just the right atmosphere for an educated debate on history. Take them to the shuttlebay."

He pushed Uhura towards the turbolift, then gripped the unconscious Jim by the collar and dragged him across the bridge. Spock and Scotty dug their heels into the deck, but the phaser nozzles sped them up. The Andorians shoved them all together and surrounded, like a herd of sheep. Shras turned to Sarek, who was still standing with his back to the comm panel.

"Should I, perhaps, stun you as well? Move!"

Sarek made a step forward, and then stopped. His dark eyes widened and his lower jaw trembled, twisting his motionless face into a mask of pain and horror. He let out a small gasp and pressed his hands against his right side, where his heart was.

"Father," Spock said.

He tried to break free but a phaser at his temple kept him in place. Sarek didn't seem to hear him. The Vulcan staggered backwards and clawed at the comm panel, trying to steady himself. And then went down on his knees and slumped onto the deck, unconscious.

No. Please, no. McCoy slapped off the Andorian's grip, broke the circle, rushed to the Vulcan, and knelt beside him. Talk to me about non-emotionalism and calm, he thought feverishly as he pulled out his scanner and recalibrated it for a Vulcan. Adrenaline outbreak and stress-induced bradycardia weren't an issue for the dilated Vulcan blood vessels, but not after an open heart surgery. He turned Sarek face-up and ran the scanner over his chest.

"Leave him," Shras snapped.

McCoy ignored the command. He stared at the scanner, gave it a good shake, and ran it over Sarek once more. It was no mistake. For a mildly fatigued Vulcan in his hundreds, the readings were perfectly normal.

"I will not repeat, doctor."

He wasn't having an attack, McCoy realized, amazedly. He was feigning. Messing up with the Andorians and winning time for the captives to fight back. The doctor felt blood hammer in his temples and drew himself together, preparing for the attack.

"He's just had an operation, and now you're killing him with your vendetta nonsense. He needs help," he said, trying his best to keep his voice level.

The Andorian snorted aloud.

"He will die anyway. No point in wasting our time and resources. Now, if you just – "

Shras just barely put his hand on McCoy's shoulder, when the doctor swung around with a growl and leaped, knocking him off his feet. The Andorian flailed wildly and shot his phaser at random as they tumbled onto the deck. The shot hit the viewscreen and vaporized it, wiping off the Orions' dumbfounded faces, and then McCoy wrenched the weapon out of Shras' hand and punched his face with it.

Scotty was the first to join in. He caught one of the captors by the throat and banged his head against a panel. Uhura grabbed the toothless one's antennae and hung on him, at which point he yelled and began prancing around trying to shake her off. Spock struck the other Andorian in the stomach so he bent double, and pinched the base of his neck. He then pounded Uhura's counterpart on the back of his head, and he collapsed, looking relieved. McCoy broke Shras' nose and was just raising his blue-splotched fist aiming at the Adam's apple, when the turbolift doors flung apart. A bunch of redshirts rushed inside, phasers drawn, and looked confusedly about. There was no one to fight. It was all over.

McCoy let go off Shras and rose to his feet, letting the guards haul him up. The ambassador was half-conscious, and his nose was swollen and cyanotic. The others were taken, too, at varying degrees of delirium.

"Off to the brig for now," Spock ordered.

While they were being dragged away, McCoy looked around to estimate the damage. Scotty had a split lip. Uhura's hair was messed, but she would surely live. Spock looked unharmed, and so did Sarek, standing there beside the comm panel, watching them. Oh, well.

The doctor lowered himself beside Jim, who was beginning to look more drowsy than stunned by now. He slapped him on the cheeks a couple of times, and the Captain opened his eyes, disoriented. His gaze floated for a while, and then caught McCoy into focus.

"Bones, you're bleeding," Jim rasped.

McCoy raised a hand and felt the stickiness at the brow. A red streak was flooding his left eye, and he blinked it off, making it look as if he cried blood. He never even noticed when he'd had it cut.

"What happened, anyway?" Jim said, leaning on McCoy's arm and sitting up.

"A nice rough-and-tumble it wiz," Scotty beamed cheerfully, "An' a splendid performance on ambassador Sarek's part."

McCoy had to agree. Who would have thought the Vulcan would turn out to be such an actor? He eyed Sarek, whose face was immaculately blank again.

"I thought Vulcans never played pretend."

"I did not," Sarek said, "It was a mere exaggeration. And the only rational opportunity for me to call the guards and gain us some time while waiting for them."

He pointed at the comm panel. Of course. He'd given Spock his first computing lessons, so he clearly knew which buttons to press. And he actually pressed them, when he was grasping the panel imitating agony. He had also predicted McCoy to make a fuss about him, and knew the doctor would play along when he saw the scanner read normal. It was all carefully calculated, in the usual Vulcan way. Amazing, McCoy repeated to himself as he helped Jim to his feet.

"Speaking of rationality," Spock interrupted his exaltation, "You do realize that your unduly impulsive actions could have led to serious injuries, do you not?"

McCoy was speechless for a while. He couldn't believe Spock would have the nerve to scold him at this time.

"I didn't know Sarek called the redshirts," he said coarsely, "I thought – "

"You did not think. You acted out of impulse, just as usual," the words lashed out, "But this time, your carelessness put everyone's lives in jeopardy and cost you a trauma."

It seemed to become very quiet all of a sudden. Everyone was used to confrontations between Spock and McCoy, and no one ever took them seriously. They'd even made bets sometimes. But now, there was something in Spock's tone, and how the doctor clenched his fists white-knuckled, that suggested it has all taken the wrong course. Wronger than usual, that is.

"The guards would be here in a minute's time. All that was required from you was to distract the Andorians until they were arrested," Spock went on, "You chose heroism instead, which was bold, but largely uncalled for."

He motioned to Scotty and left off to the brig to oversee the Andorians' transportation back to Babel. Scotty followed, stealing an apologetic look over the shoulder as he did. In the awkward silence that emerged, everyone seemed to stare at McCoy, but he was blind to their stares. He just stood there and watched this sick world crumble all around him, dragging him all the way down, just like two months ago.

He only came back to the reality when he felt Uhura wipe at his brow with a napkin she'd pulled out from somewhere. Was it understanding down there, at the bottom of her magnificent pitch-black eyes? He couldn't really say.


	5. Chapter 5

When neither Shras nor Sarek appeared after the recess, the meeting was delayed. Everyone went looking for them, speculating if maybe the ambassadors had killed each other, or were conspiring against everybody else. It was late when Sarek returned, but no one wanted to call it a night, demanding explanations. One major point of concern was just why the Andorians came back shackled and thrashed up black and blue – it was the black that worried them, obviously. Sarek said he would explicate for both of them because Shras was clearly in no fit condition. The plum-nosed Andorian was led away and placed in custody along with his associates – a precaution that Sarek guaranteed to provide the justification for, since he now had a whole load of material on hand. After such claims, naturally, the meeting went on.

Doctor McCoy didn't attend. Instead, he joined Scotty and Uhura at a funky little bar at the capital center in the hope to take his mind off things. But there was just no escaping the goddamn conference, it seemed. At the bar, there was a huge viewscreen where the meeting was being transmitted live. He had no choice but to watch and sulk over his coffee cup.

At the moment, there was a Tellarite representative replacing the late ambassador Gav, making a speech for Coridan's sovereignty. He was passionate, but his arguments were just so lame, McCoy, Uhura, and Scotty realized after what they'd just lived through. They knew he had no chances. Now that the Andorian-Orion plot was debunked, the necessity for the admission was obvious. Only the Federation could secure Coridan from the piracy – and from itself – and the odds for it were definitely on the increase.

They saw Sarek step up into the arena and call Spock and Jim as his witnesses. Spock was acting as the reliable source of information, and Jim as the Captain, since he was unconscious most of the time. The Vulcan asked to put on the audio-visual recording from the bridge, and the chamber gasped. So did the public in the bar as they watched the drama unfold. McCoy saw himself jump at the Andorian ambassador and covered his face with his hand. As if it wasn't embarrassing enough.

"I'm all fer ye, doctor," Scotty rumbled, somewhat tipsy by now, and peered at the screen, "It wiz a mighty good rammy ye put up."

"They could shoot us all," McCoy said from under the facepalm, "It only worked because they didn't expect this. The surprise factor, see? Guess I could have really killed y'all, just like Spock said."

"Ooh, Vulcans an' their rationality," Scotty hit his glass on the counter, "Goin' on aboot duty and logic like the universe is their oyster. An' then ye dismantle the ship by circuit an' stuff it back inside. An' ye pull their bums oot of a pile of cacky, like, a thousand times in a row. An' never get so much as a "thank ye Scotty" fer all yer pains an' crummies."

McCoy and Uhura gave him a funny look. The Engineer fumed for a while, ignited by his own tirade, and then his indignation subsided. He looked down his glass of scotch and seemed to sink deep into thought.

"E'en as I'm sayin' it, I reckon maybe this is what bein' loyal is all aboot," he said finally.

"How do you mean?"

"He means that the better you perform and the less you complain, the more they take you for granted," Uhura said, running a finger around the edge of her martini glass, "And it's ironic, really, but maybe it's the best compliment you can ever get. Your skill, competence, good nature, and friendship – it's all defined by how underappreciated you are."

McCoy turned his gaze from one to the other. Something was telling him they had a point. But then, he marveled, how goddamn knotted up it really was, tangled into a giant ball of words, looks, attitudes, misinterpretations. It was all… perverted.

There was no other word for this cartoonish world where friends looked down on you, where lovers made hasty decisions and threw your feelings around, where gratitude was an alien concept. It was the world he lived in, but as the doctor looked at it, he felt he couldn't understand it any longer. It loomed and expanded like some sick, grotesque allegory of space-time, too complicated and too huge for him. It was a world where everyone looked up, and thought big, and aimed high. And it had no place for his sad little person.

He finished his coffee and rose from the chair.

"Where d'you go?" Scotty said.

McCoy patted the drunken Engineer on the shoulder and grinned crookedly at Uhura. Once again, there was something in the way the woman smiled back that told him she understood. She probably knew what it was all about, but had the tact to say 'friendship' where 'love' was meant to be. Not that it made things any less twisted, but he was thankful all the same.

"Guess I just need some time alone," he said, "Don't worry about me."

He left the bar, dropped in to his hotel, and changed into civilian clothes. He then took his travel bag and went off into the narrow streets. The night on Babel was cool, the air sharp and fresh like a menthol-tipped toothpick. He breathed it in, and it seemed to stab at his lungs, defensively.

"Well, blast you, too," McCoy said aloud.

He legged it to a vehicle rental he'd spotted nearby. There was a sleepy Aenar girl at the counter, and when he entered, her blind eyes looked at him and right through him. He felt her search his mind, and the next moment, she knew everything about doctor Leonard H. McCoy of the U.S.S. Enterprise. She rose up and motioned for him to follow.

A telepath at the vehicle rental – a perfect match for the job, he thought while she led him to the hangar. No need for IDs, contracts, cash deposits. She knew exactly what he wanted and for how long, and now she'd just find his account by name and charge it, plus the 25% of credit hold. And then she'd probably give him a massive migraine if he didn't return the car on time.

The Aenar led him towards a two-passenger hovercraft car, with a huge impeller and a claret-colored skirt, now deflated. It was somewhat old-fashioned and pretentious, McCoy thought, but just as good as anything. He nodded in agreement. The Aenar gave him the card key and went to open the hangar gates.

He threw his bag onto the passenger seat, started the engine and felt the air pump and pressurize underneath him. He sat there, tapping his fingers on the wheel until the skirt inflated, and pressed the accelerator. It took some getting used to after a long break, but the reflexes never quite wore off. He drove past the Aenar girl, who waved him goodbye, into the dark streets, and headed out of the city.

Before long, the hovercraft was carrying him along the highway and far off into the night.


	6. Chapter 6

He'd almost forgotten what the road felt like in the nighttime. The hovercraft was gliding, her skirt brushing noiselessly over the road material, whatever that was. He leaned back in his seat and steered with one hand. There were some shops and tiny hotels on both sides of the highway when he was leaving the capital, but they whooshed into the distance soon, the transient splotches of light and nightlife. Further away from the city, there was little else but occasional drive-throughs and some gnarly trees here and there. Their long shadows scurried away from the hovercraft's headlight beams and closed back behind him as he went past. There was some strange peacefulness to the drive, and now that he was alone, he could hear his thoughts more clearly.

Being undervalued hurt like hell. But it turned out, the underappreciation was something they all faced at some point. Uhura looked at it as a form of appraisal. Scotty complained but never went further than that. That was how most people reacted, McCoy mused. They either accepted it or got defensive, but never wanted to change anything. Something squeezed his heart as he thought this, but he shook the feeling off and concentrated on the driving. The powerful headlights flashed a circle of the road surface out of the darkness, making his eyes tingle. He realized he was dead tired.

In a computerized feminine voice, the navigator told him he was approaching Brundisium. It was a small town in the country, smaller than the capital, which meant it was probably twice as crowded. McCoy didn't feel like elbowing his way through scores of visitors all over again. He pulled over and asked the navigator for the nearest motel. The computer laid in the course, and he headed there.

All rooms were occupied except for the bachelor suite in the attic. It wasn't as if he had much choice, so the doctor agreed and checked in. He then went to park his hovercraft and had to circle the lot for quite a while before he squeezed it into a tiny spot at the far end. The stupid conference, he thought again, as he walked back to the motel's building. What was so big about Coridan's admission that the place was stacked with people like the blasted Tower of Babel. Oh, wait. It _was_ Babel, wasn't it.

There was an ancient-looking vending machine in the hall, the kind that had just about everything in them, from warm canned beer and crushed plomeek chips to contact lens and condoms. He bought what looked like a burrito and then, upon some consideration, a pack of cigarettes. It's been long since he last saw a real paper-and-tobacco cigarette, let alone smoked one. He pocketed the pack and went to his attic.

It was, well, small. Poorly-furnished and awkward-looking, just like attics usually are. It tried to make the best use of the little space available, and still McCoy almost bumped his head on a protruding rafter as he entered. Instead of a bed, there was a mattress on the floor, taking up most of the space. The only other big thing here was the triangle-shaped window from the floor to the slanted ceiling, which faced the parking lot, the highway, and the poor crummy woods nearby.

McCoy threw his bag on a chair and slumped onto the mattress with his clothes on. Everything was so close at hand he only had to stretch an arm to open the window. In the nightly chill that diffused in the room, he lit up a cigarette and took a hit. The smoke filled his lungs, and the long-forgotten sensation of light-headedness came, making him feel even emptier than he already was. The doctor spat through the window and rolled over, staring at the ceiling. The exposed rafters hung over him like a giant ribcage with all the flesh eaten off of the bones ages ago.

Just when we've all managed to become so inert, he thought. Where did this all-acceptance come from? Was it the fear of losing their positions, status, rank, material wealth? But then, what was the point of striving for them? All the effort was for the sheer sake of getting themselves fed, clothed, and sheltered. Those were the basic needs of any sentient being, and they could be satisfied quite easily. The doctor knew it better than anyone. The body could tell when and what it needed, and it shouldn't take this much to get it nourished and hydrated. Everyone basically knew how to care about themselves, on an instinctive level. At this, material greed was nothing but an obstruction.

Of course, there was this other basic instinct, but that could be taken care of just as artlessly. When it came to sex, any partner would suffice, if need be. Anyone aesthetically agreeable, that is. And cooperative enough not to want any strings attached.

It was that simple. No point in having your heart stomped on in a hormone-crazy chase after married noblewomen. Or, McCoy thought, the snobbish, stagnated, ungrateful Vulcans.

He listened to the stillness of the night interrupted now and again by the crowds' cheering and wooing somewhere in the distance. His communicator tweeted a couple of times, but he ignored it. Must have accidentally picked up some alien frequency, he thought. He was far away from all this, taking up just about the last patch of free space on the planetoid's surface. Slumberously, the solitude crept up at him and whimpered him in the face.

There wasn't much to do. He pecked at the burrito and found something alive and wriggling in between the lettuce leaves, so he tossed it. He considered going downstairs and having a drink but didn't feel like it. He'd abstained from alcohol for the last two months, and besides, he had to drive again tomorrow.

Or maybe he didn't, he thought sluggishly. Nothing would change after he'd return, so why bother. Spock would still be resentful, and distant, and ashamed of him. He didn't need his parents' approval because there was nothing to approve of, really. Somehow Spock had always known they were never meant to be, which was why he never told anyone.

Maybe he was right, McCoy thought, lighting another cigarette. It never went smoothly for someone who were that different from each other. There were Sarek and Amanda, of course, but perhaps the lady was just smart enough and patient enough to comply with her husband's oddities. And if Sarek could tolerate an illogical human by his side for so many years, it didn't mean that Spock would, too.

McCoy was tired of compliance. And he didn't want to be tolerated.

It must be the smoke getting into his eyes, he thought as he blinked off a tear. He sniffed and wiped at his face. Oh, well. Fine. He'd manage. He'd be just as happy on his own, he thought, and didn't believe it for a second.

He was beginning to drift away into a heavy slumber, when a knock at the door made him jerk up. He gaped at it, big-eyed. Housekeeping? At this hour? No, not likely. Maybe the maître had spotted him buy cigarettes and was meaning to bang some safety rules into his head with a fire extinguisher. Or maybe he'd just dreamed it.

The tapping repeated. McCoy rose to his feet, somewhat apprehensive, and opened. Standing there, dressed in civilian, with a tricorder over his shoulder, was Spock.


	7. Chapter 7

"May I come in?"

The doctor stepped back, like a robot. Spock entered, sniffed at the air, and spotted the two cigarette stubs scattered on the floor.

"You could have started a fire if you fell asleep without putting them out," he said reproachfully.

It was another stab at his irrational nature, but the doctor was too stunned to pay attention. He gawked at the Vulcan for a while.

"How did you find me?" he rasped finally.

Spock shut the door behind him and tapped at his tricorder.

"Since you were not present at the capital and did not respond when I called, I had to lock on your communicator signal and track your location. Then I found a cargo shuttlecraft headed in that direction and solicited for a passenger place, citing the urgency of the situation."

"You mean you hitchhiked."

"I believe I said that," Spock said, twitching his brow.

Involuntarily, the doctor's face broke into a goofy half-smile. He was moved. Spock was obviously worried when he couldn't find him, and so he bolted off into the night to bring him back. But, he thought, Spock's presence wouldn't change anything, not really. It still ached.

"Why'd you even bother to come," he shook his head.

"As I said, you were unresponsive, so I assumed something was wrong."

McCoy scoffed.

"Oh, you assumed. How about askin' me if anything was wrong?"

Spock made a step closer.

"Leonard, I – "

"Don't you Leonard me," the doctor snapped, "And don't pretend you care. You already showed how you care, making a fool out of me in front of your parents and never even telling them anything."

Spock blinked, taken aback by the onrush.

"I did not mean to disrespect you. I merely pointed out – " he trailed off for a while, "At any rate, your submission is, presently, irrelevant. They are aware of us by now."

He told them. The doctor felt his heart loop. He knew their opinion mattered a lot to Spock, and the very fact that he finally told them meant he shook off his doubts. Spock had actually contemplated sharing a life with him in all his humanness and insecurity, and was all set for it. It was the moment McCoy had waited and dreaded for what seemed like an eternity.

"So... What did they say?"

"They were mildly surprised but supportive overall," Spock said, "And now that the conference is over, they are ready to discuss it in a leisurely setting. I was meaning to let you know, but you escaped before I had a chance to."

It was supposed to be good news, and McCoy really wished he could appreciate it. But now he raised his gaze to meet Spock's and realized what it was all about. The conference. He'd been waiting for the blasted conference to end, he thought numbly. And he'd just shoved aside the personal matters until then, just as usual, because there was duty at hand.

The storm inside McCoy subsided, and he felt emptiness swell up from the depth of his being. This was the tragedy of a sidekick character, he thought, giving the Vulcan a long, weary look. His presence was desirable, but when it came to personal, there was always something more important than McCoy. Something bigger than him, something that outweighed him in Spock's eyes.

Finally, he got to the bottom of it. And he saw no way he could possibly float back to the surface.

"That's the problem with you, Spock," McCoy said, a strange calm in his voice, "You think in broad terms and follow a high purpose, but you keep overlooking the small things that are there, just under your feet. You raise your head up and never ever notice when you stamp on someone. Someone like me. You're a slave of your own ambition, Spock. And I've never been ambitious."

This seemed to reach deeper than if he'd shouted. Spock's brow clouded with genuine concern. McCoy noticed it and turned away, as if he didn't want to embarrass the Vulcan on the rare occasion he showed emotion. The doctor walked over to the window and gazed into the darkness outside.

"You're free to go, because this clearly isn't getting us anywhere. I love you," he whispered, not looking at Spock, "But if that's how you set your priorities, I'm out of it."

Spock looked at the human standing there, his silhouette sharp in the chilly light of Babel's three moons, and made no move.

"Have you, by any means, read 'Satires' by Quintus Horatius Flaccus, also known as Horace?" he asked contemplatively, "Your argumentation resembles his, in a way. Only, your understanding appears somewhat simplistic because you miss a very important point: the just medium. The compromise, which is quintessential for every living being's comfort among its kind."

Spock seemed to withdraw into reflection, and they were quiet for some time. The Vulcan was being a condescending know-it-all again, McCoy noted. Typical. He'd heard vaguely of Flaccus but never got his hands on any of his works. He spoke out of his heart, the way he saw it, but Spock wasn't impressed – because, turns out, he'd read it somewhere before. But then, what did it matter now, McCoy thought, even if that perverted story kept repeating itself. They wouldn't be together in any of the cycles.

"However, and now that I think of it," Spock broke the silence, "I might have overlooked that same point as well. If this journey has taught me anything, it is the balance that should be kept between the personal and the professional. I have tried to maintain this balance, but the problem is, _you_ take everything quite too personally."

The doctor was still staring off into space.

"You place a high priority on the emotional aspects of any engagement. Especially on how these aspects are expressed through words and actions. I know you well enough to assume that much. And it seems, I haven't been explicit enough to make you understand how dear you are to me."

In the stillness that followed, the doctor turned his head halfway in the Vulcan's direction. It wasn't often that Spock found the resolve to admit his mistakes. Especially when it concerned his feelings and how he displayed them.

"You didn't tell Sarek and Amanda until the conference was over," McCoy said.

"I have calculated that Coridan's admission would be the most likely outcome. This, and the fact of my father's success, would create a more relaxed atmosphere and possibly increase the chances of their approval."

"Fair enough. What about you lecturing me back at the bridge?"

There was a strange uneasiness to Spock's expression, something that made him appear almost human when he looked at the fresh cut on McCoy's forehead.

"Admittedly, I was quite unsettled by the situation. And the fact that you got hurt."

Almost human, the doctor repeated to himself, and couldn't keep a straight face any longer. He turned to face the Vulcan, who made another step towards him.

"I apologize, Leonard," Spock said softly, "Will you forgive me?"

Looks like the Samsara wheel just gave a backward turn, McCoy thought. Oh, he'd always known it was never gonna be easy with Spock. They would still be the diametrical opposites of each other. Spock would still be more distant than he would have liked. He would tell McCoy off for his illogic, and he would stab at Spock's cold-heartedness, and they would surely quarrel, and it would probably hurt. Spock could never give him the simplicity that he'd dreamed of, just because they were so goddamn different. But the moment their gazes locked, no matter how emptied he was, he knew he couldn't reject him.

Wordlessly, McCoy approached the Vulcan until they almost touched. Spock raised a hand with his index and middle fingers extended. McCoy returned the touch and saw Spock close his eyes as the electricity of the kiss sparkled between their fingers. The sensation was pleasant even for a human, and he leaned closer.

"I thought you wanted me out of your life," he whispered, pressing his other hand against Spock's chest, "That's why I was all at you back at the sickbay."

Spock gazed down at the human, not a trace of reproach in his eyes.

"As for what you said – it was, indeed, quite upsetting. Bit I surmised you were tired on the aftermath of the operation and with your patients not wishing to cooperate," he closed his arm on the doctor's waist, "As for what you thought – you were wrong. I was as firm in my decision as I am now."

'Stressed with the surgery and other issues', those were his words, McCoy remembered, and almost laughed at his own stupidity. Of course. It was a huge misunderstanding. There were no sarcastic undertones he'd imagined in Spock's words. The Vulcan always meant what he said. And it meant he cared.

Their fingers crossed, the Vulcan kiss seemed to encloud their beings in a myriad of sparks and tiny fireworks. It was wonderful, McCoy thought, but this time, he was going to do it the human way. He moved his hand higher up to Spock's shoulder, to the back of his neck. He then pulled Spock's head down and kissed him lightly on the lips. They were still for a moment, and then the kiss became deeper.


	8. Chapter 8

The Vulcan's lips parted, letting the human's tongue inside. McCoy wrapped his arms around Spock's neck, and his heartbeat increased when Spock held him close. He breathed deeply, feeling the warmth trickle through his whole body. They had never kissed like this before. They were alone in that tiny attic in the middle of nowhere, and the night was tender, and most of the questions were answered by now, leaving no place for bitterness. McCoy felt loved. Their tongues entwined, Spock's body shivered slightly against his, and suddenly he knew where it was leading.

The doctor withdrew and looked deep into those dark eyes. He had longed for that strange platonic romance to grow into something more, and now the moment seemed right. But there was some uncertainty in Spock's gaze that made McCoy ask himself if he was, perhaps, too insistent. He didn't want to rush things. He wasn't the virgin here, after all.

"If you don't feel like it just now – " he said.

Spock took a moment to consider. He then shook his head and covered McCoy's lips with his again. It was a telling answer, the doctor thought as he kissed back, running his hands through the Vulcan's hair and messing it up. But still.

Spock had surely read things and maybe even watched things out of scientific interest. The doctor didn't doubt that the Vulcan knew the theory of it. It was the practical part that troubled him.

"You probably haven't the slightest idea what to do with me," he said, leaning back from Spock.

The Vulcan hesitated for a fraction, and McCoy understood he wasn't mistaken. But the thought didn't seem to daunt Spock. He raised a hand and touched the doctor's face at the temple, cheek, and jawline.

"You will guide me," he said, his voice a low rumble, "My mind to your mind."

McCoy felt Spock's consciousness hover on the brink of his perception and let him in. They'd mind-melded before, but this time, the Vulcan's presence was all-encompassing, because he needed to get to the bottom. Spock's mind diffused in his, and from somewhere in between, McCoy saw the Vulcan's cheeks blush green. He blushed, too, because Spock was looking through his sweetest fantasies about this very moment. And he'd pictured it quite often.

Spock's free hand slid down McCoy's back and stopped there. It pulled him closer, gently pressing their groins together. Still melded, Spock leaned towards him. McCoy took a deep breath as Spock's lips traveled across his neck, and he felt the Vulcan's tongue behind his ear.

"Hey, that was supposed to be my part," he smiled and clutched Spock's shirt.

Spock let go off his face. This time, McCoy was in charge, and now Spock knew exactly how he wanted it. He unbuttoned his shirt and sensed the warmth of the human skin under his fingers. The shirt slid off the doctor's shoulders, and he helped Spock out of his. The Vulcan's skin was cool, but McCoy's heat was enough for the two of them, it seemed. His body was nagging with the need.

Spock's hand went down to free the doctor of his pants. McCoy felt his fingers under the belt and wiggled his hips, quite prosaically, to drop the clothes. After some more shuffling, they both stood there naked. McCoy let his gaze wander, marveling at the other's body. He knew Spock was doing the same, reluctant, now that they lost tactile contact. He pressed the warmth of his body against Spock's chill, and the Vulcan held him. He slid his hands over McCoy's lean torso, and hesitated no more.

He lifted the doctor off the floor and carried him over to the mattress. He then lowered him face-up, gently, and kissed deep. McCoy grasped Spock's hair – he just couldn't have enough of its softness – and the Vulcan came down on top of him, moving wave-like. They were merging into a single entity, and Spock's human half was with him, caressing, embodying his favorite dreams into reality. He felt Spock's hand travel down where their crotches rubbed against each other, and gasped as it closed on his erection. He lifted his hips to meet the sensual rhythm of those long fingers, and heard the Vulcan groan when he touched him back. They moved together, each stroke driving them a little further out of control.

"There's my bag over there," McCoy breathed out, his head spinning, "An' there's lube in there, in the medkit. Grab it, willya?"

Spock's brow arched, and he obeyed, somewhat nonplussed. He shuffled through the kit, found the lubricant bottle, returned to McCoy, and knelt beside.

"Surprised?" the doctor teased, his hand crawling up Spock's knee.

"It is indeed quite puzzling that you should take medical equipment with you on your escape."

Spock was perfectly serious, and McCoy let out a laugh.

"A physician's always a physician," he said, watching the Vulcan unscrew the bottle tip, "Guess I know my duties, too."

Spock got closer, and McCoy moved his knees apart. He took Spock's hand, guiding two of his fingers inside. The moment they entered him, he inhaled sharply through clenched teeth, and the Vulcan stopped on the instant.

"Am I hurting you?"

McCoy's heart melted at the sight of raw terror in Spock's eyes. He shook his head no and stroked Spock's hand soothingly. There wasn't much pain. He just needed some time to adjust, and Spock gave him the time. He waited until the human's muscles relaxed and his breath calmed, and saw a faint blush of pleasure color his cheeks.

"Go on," McCoy whispered, reaching to pull the Vulcan's head down.

Spock repositioned himself and kissed his human softly, moving the fingers deeper inside him. McCoy groaned and arched his back. The tightness of him thrilled Spock, and he pressed him bodily into the mattress, increasing the tempo gradually. The feeling flowed in an overpowering uprush, and he knew that McCoy felt it, too. He brushed his lips along McCoy's throat and let the feeling flood their merged existences, like a tidal wave. His body was getting feverish from the human's fever, and the need was bursting. He saw McCoy's eyes flash electric blue when the tripled beam of moonshine poured over them. Feel me, his voice said inside Spock's head. Take me.

McCoy felt Spock remove his fingers, and the Vulcan shuffled with the lube. He took a breath and reached out to guide Spock again, but his hand was stopped in mid-air. The Vulcan didn't panic this time. He took McCoy by the waist, pulled his hips up against his lap, and pushed inside him, slowly, slowly. The doctor let out a moan. He dug his nails into Spock's neck and shook all over, while the Vulcan kept motionless, feeling him, waiting for him. The last boundaries between them just came undone, and there was no need for words, not anymore. Spock felt when the time was right, and came down in a smooth, gentle thrust. McCoy wrapped his whole body around him, and they moved in unison, seeing nothing but each other's eyes. They enclosed on each other and faded into each other, and at this moment, nothing else existed.

Their arms entwined, hearts racing, McCoy felt he couldn't really tell his body or his mind from Spock's at this point. He sensed what the other sensed, and didn't need to touch himself, he knew. His body pulsated together with Spock's, and he felt it tense when the climax was nearing. Spock growled and pressed his forehead against McCoy's as he thrust harder into him with all his length. The doctor's eyes went wild, his lips trembled, and just when he thought they couldn't possibly get any closer, their minds collided and burst in a cloud of atomic particles.

They went off in a spasm, madly, losing themselves in each other with every nanosecond of the climax. McCoy gripped Spock by the ears and kissed him fiercely, the Vulcan's strong hands holding him so tight he almost choked. It was intense, and it was complete. Their minds dissolved, their bodies clasping at each other, they lay there breathless, and time seemed to stop, sucking them both down its depth.

McCoy was the first to recover his senses. Spock lay on top of him, motionless, his head resting on the doctor's chest, and he realized he was still grasping the Vulcan's ears. He also realized they were sticky all over.

He stroked Spock's messy hair, waking him up from the trance. Spock rose up, somewhat unsteadily, and the doctor took him by the wrist and led to the shower. The shower stall was so small they barely squeezed inside, and it seemed like ages before they got the water temperature right. By the time McCoy felt like he was boiling alive, Spock was still freezing cold. They finally balanced it down to the happy medium and washed, filling the tiny stall with bubbles and steam.

When Spock helped McCoy out, they searched around and found no bath towels. The miserable bachelor suite was never meant for the two of them, so they had to wipe at each other with a single hand towel. At some point, Spock went down on one knee to dry McCoy's thighs and shins up, and lifted his dark-eyed gaze to meet the doctor's. Seeing Spock kneeled like this was supposed to be exciting, McCoy thought, smiling wearily. He put his hand on Spock's head, caressingly, but was too drained to start anything. He'd given him everything he could, for now.

They crawled under the blanket, and Spock put his arms around McCoy. The doctor snuggled his face against the base of his neck, feeling the Vulcan's fingers brush up and down along his spine, absently. They didn't talk. After they've been so close, words seemed obsolete. They just rested, recovering themselves, backing off to cross the line that lay where the one ended and the other started. Before long, Spock's hand stopped on McCoy's waist and stayed there. He felt the Vulcan's breath slow down and raised his head to watch Spock gradually drift away into a dreamy stillness. Seeing him so exhausted was one of those tender moments the doctor would forever cherish.

Forever, he said to himself, and trembled at the thought.

With utmost caution not to disturb Spock, the doctor slid out of his embrace and reached for the cigarettes. He lit one and sat there, knees drawn to his chest, watching the Vulcan in his sleep. He loved and felt loved, and he'd wanted Spock for unbearably long, and at this moment, he probably was the happiest man in the galaxy. But, he thought as he saw Spock's dark eyelashes flicker now and again. There was always a 'but', and now he felt it, nagging.

Now he knew why Spock took it that seriously. He could guess it would be deeply personal but he'd never imagined it to be this deep. Oh, he'd had crushes before, and he'd loved others, too. Hell, he even fathered a child at some point in life. But he had never opened himself before anyone the way he did with Spock. Before Spock, he had never been complete. And now he had this terrible fear that the 'forever' – something that went so natural when he first thought it – wouldn't be everlasting.

There was always a chance that Spock would not rush to bring him back next time. And now that McCoy contemplated his future, he knew he wouldn't last long if Spock ever left him. He would simply wither away.

He took a long hit and let the smoke out through his nostrils. Spock's nose wrinkled, and he shifted in his sleep, tossing his arm around as if he felt something was missing. McCoy put out the cigarette, waved off the smoke, and slid back under the Vulcan's arm. He lay there quietly, his hand pressed against Spock's right side, a faint rapid beat underneath his fingertips. To be this close with someone so different was like sleeping on an active volcano, he thought, and almost chuckled at the irony of it. He was scared, but he felt there wasn't much he could do about it. Because he loved the man crazy.

"Don't you ever break my heart, Spock," he whispered.

The Vulcan opened his eyes a slit. His greenish lips were a little puffy, and there was a strange softness to his sharp face when he turned to McCoy.

"What was it?" he asked somewhat indistinctly.

"Oh. Nothin'," the doctor said.

Spock pulled him close, and he buried his face against his bare chest. The night was small, and they fell asleep together, the dim white light of Babel's three moons making them appear strangely weightless.


	9. Epilogue

It was nearly afternoon when McCoy woke up to the sound of water running. He lay still for some time and listened. There were times when he'd find himself struggling to tell the difference between what he'd dreamed and what was real, just after awakening. On those occasions, his thoughts would levitate, and it took shamefully long to cognize his body and self and transfix them in space-time. He wasn't sure if it was space travel and artificial gravity playing tricks with his consciousness, or he was just getting old. Not that he cared much, at the moment. This time, he knew, it was all for true. His reality.

He wrapped himself in the blanket and went to the bathroom. Spock was there, shirtless and barefooted, but with his pants on, and there was a disposable plastic toothbrush in his mouth. The Vulcan saw the doctor's reflection in the small mirror over the basin, and turned.

"An obscure place, really. I fail to see the logic in providing a supposed bachelor with two brushes, four tubes of toothpaste, nineteen pieces of soap, and not a single razor," he said, white foam in the corners of his lips, "Do you, by any chance, have one?"

McCoy didn't. He had left it back at the capital. Spock nodded and stuck the toothbrush back in his mouth. McCoy walked over and did the same, eyes locked on the Vulcan.

It was utterly touching, seeing Spock do something as simple and mundane as that. McCoy watched and absorbed, because to him, simple things mattered. These little everyday things that were part of his life from now on. Like that unshaven shadow under Spock's sharp cheekbones. Or the way water trickled down his neck when he splashed his face with it. Or – and the doctor felt fondness flood his whole being – how Spock's shoulder-blades stuck out a little, like wings. It made him look somewhat vulnerable, and so perfectly tangible, McCoy mused.

He caught Spock's gaze in the mirror and realized the Vulcan was watching him as well. Observing, collating, and aligning McCoy's own sleepy, blanket-clad, toothpaste-stained person with how he lived. Making him his reality.

After they were both clean, they shared a menthol-flavored, somewhat prickly kiss. Spock stroked McCoy's cheek, and ran a thumb over the cut on his brow. He then pressed a forefinger to the doctor's temple and frowned.

"Your head is starting to ache," he said, "Do you have any idea what the cause might be?"

McCoy sensed his squeezed blood vessels relax a little under Spock's touch. The Vulcan was right: his blood pressure was on the low, and the ache was tugging at his veins, and he hadn't even noticed. He broke into a sheepish smile.

"Caffeine withdrawal," he said, "Guess I've become a bit of a coffee maniac since – since then."

Since the night he nearly poisoned himself, the darkest of nights, he thought. And then the strangest thing happened. Their bodies touching, Spock's fingers pressed to his face, McCoy's mind suddenly locked on the other's presence. The doctor saw that the memory of that night came over Spock. And that it made him shudder.

His eyes sea-blue and widened, he gazed up at Spock, and it all came to him in a flash. Spock never regarded him as insecure. He never blamed him for harming himself instead of trying to talk things over. He was never, ever ashamed of him. There was another reason for the stiffness, the endless waiting, and how committed Spock was, and even how he nipped at him for smoking.

That night, Spock understood he'd almost lost McCoy. His friend, his brother, and – possibly – his lover. And he also understood his existence would be a vacuum without the human. And he sensed it when their togetherness already began, and ever since. It was always there: the illogical, but no less agonizing dread that one day, he would see McCoy's life interrupt, or have to watch him go otherwise. Which would ultimately put an end to his own life.

He's just as scared as I am, McCoy realized.

Still melded, he buried his face against Spock's shoulder and held him as close as he could. Spock returned the embrace and stroked his chestnut hair. The Vulcan sensed the realization dawn on the human and let the corners of his mouth twitch upward, lightly, while his _t'hy'la_ wasn't seeing.

" _Dungi zarahk-tor worla nash-veh khaf-spol_ , Leonard," he said*.

The doctor raised his eyes.

"What was that?"

"You know the answer," Spock said, and kissed him.

/

They were both quiet while they got dressed and left the motel, but only until then. When they crossed the lot and reached the hovercraft, Spock stopped and raised an eyebrow. He circled the vessel and marveled at McCoy's neat parking job. The doctor had only knocked down two of the four traffic cones that were there. And he'd torn off another car's side mirror while parking, but that could be easily fixed with some duct tape, couldn't it?

"I'm a doctor, not a driving instructor," McCoy said, squeezing inside the hovercraft, "If you were the one parkin', I bet you'd still be snaking the place up and down, calculating the perfect spot to appear."

The Vulcan did not argue. He watched McCoy start the car, back up out of the spot, and lean over to open the passenger door for him.

"I do not even possess a driving license," he said softly, and got in.

McCoy pressed the accelerator and let the air whirr through the impeller blades behind them. Soon they were on the highway and heading back to the capital. They didn't talk about what happened: it was, again, something that nullified the necessity of words. The fears were not gone, but now, they reasoned, they could balance that as well.

Instead, they went over Spock's parents' reaction again. There wasn't much fascination, but Sarek surmised a partnership on equal terms would be beneficial for both. Amanda was glad. She found the doctor quite charming, Spock said, and was amazed at his courage when she saw the recording from the bridge. The human factor could be taking place here, Spock said, but then, it was only expectable. And quite understandable.

At some point, the Vulcan touched McCoy's hand and pointed at a drive-through by the road where they could have coffee. He headed there, and they took a black sublimate and a decaf sublimate, and were back on the highway in a minute.

That's how the story goes, McCoy thought, sipping his coffee, relieved as the headache began to evaporate. It was a story of friendship, love, self-defiance, duty, treason, unnecessary heroism, hurt, tenderness. And then there was the moment when they were fully dissolved in each other, saw each other's biggest insecurities, reached each other's greatest depths. It was the moment of catharsis, and that was when the story came to an end.

From then on, reality started. Spock's and McCoy's.

* * *

* I shall never break your heart


End file.
